


Connor Walsh for Dummies

by wayfarer



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-26 00:42:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4983211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayfarer/pseuds/wayfarer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't always easy loving Connor Walsh, but luckily Oliver knows just how to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Connor Walsh for Dummies

**Author's Note:**

> the lack of coliver in this past week's episode made me sad so i had to fill the hole with fic
> 
> also this exists in some vague post season 1 world where i ignore most of the last 4 episodes. whoops.
> 
> WARNING: i very very very vaguely allude to a sexual assault at the beginning. i think it encompasses all of like 2 sentences, but i just wanted to let you guys know. if you have any questions, let me know. stay safe kiddos.

_He isn’t a drug addict._

You’re well aware of this fact. You might not be working for one of the top defense attorneys in the city, but you’re far from stupid. You might have believed him when he was coming down from a panic attack, but the longer you thought about it, the less you believed it.

It just didn’t add up.

In the two and a half month you had known him leading up to that night, you had never seen any of the warning signs. No rapid weight gain or loss. No bloodshot eyes or slurred speech. No rapid mood changes. No loss of motivation. Nothing.

He was fine and then he wasn’t. Maybe you would believe that he’d taken something for the first time, that he’d had a bad trip, but an addiction? No way.

But something had happened that night that led to Connor having a panic attack outside your doorway at six in the morning. Something bad enough that he made up a drug problem to avoid telling you the truth. It used to keep you up at night sometimes, trying to figure it out. Trying to figure out what possibly could have reduced cold, stoic Connor Walsh into a hyperventilating wreck at your doorstep. It occurred to you that maybe someone had taken advantage of him, had _hurt_ him, and the thought had nearly made you sick. But in the end, you were pretty sure that wasn’t what happened.

You aren’t stupid. It seems an unlikely coincidence that the same night the husband of the woman Connor is working for went missing Connor had a breakdown. And shortly after, Sam had been found in pieces burned beyond recognition. _I screwed up_ , he had said, smelling of smoke.

Connor Walsh is a lot of things, but he isn’t a killer. You don’t know what happened that night, but you know that.

And you hope that when he’s ready to talk, he’ll know you’re ready to listen.

 

_His cooking skills do not extend beyond breakfast foods._

Beware.

 

_He talks in his sleep._

You found this out pretty early on. You’re usually the one who falls asleep first, but he was exhausted that night and was out nearly the moment his head hit the pillow, leaving you to the book you’d been trying to finish for months.

You’d just reached the halfway point when, as clearly as if you were having a normal conversation, he’d said, “very, very, very tiny lemons.”

You were utterly bewildered until you realized he was still asleep. And then you were laughing your ass off, pulling the pillow over your face to prevent from waking him up.

The next morning, as he was stirring sugar into his coffee, his eyes still red with exhaustion, you leaned against the counter, using your own mug to hide the smile on your face, and asked, “lemons, huh?”

He looked up, eyebrows scrunching in confusion.

“You talk in your sleep,” you explained.

The effect was instantaneous. He snapped to attention, abandoning his coffee and stalking toward you, eyebrows narrowed. From close up, you could see the blush rising to his cheeks. “I do not,” he said, stubbornly, arms crossed over his chest. He looked like a petulant little kid.

You couldn’t help but start laughing. You laughed and laughed and laughed as Connor’s cheek grew progressively redder and he complained about what a dick you were until it was time for both of you to leave for work.

“It only happens when I’m stressed out or really tired,” he explained later, apropos of absolutely nothing. There was barely a foot of space between you both where you were sitting on the couch, working on your laptops. At your blank look, he added, “the sleep talking.”

You couldn’t help the grin and the ridiculous giggles you felt building in your chest.

“I hate you so, so much,” Connor said darkly.

“Don’t be embarrassed, Connor,” you teased. “It’s cute.”

It’s not so cute now when he wakes you up with his thrashing, tears rolling down his cheeks, muttering _I screwed up_ , over and over into his pillow.

 

_He has nightmares_.

It’s mostly after. He thrashes and he talks and he cries and you feel utterly helpless. _Do I let him wake up on his own or should I wake him up?_ _Should I mention it in the morning? What do I_ do?

You Googled it the morning after the first time, feeling guilty and sick to your stomach at how quiet Connor was sitting across from you, eyes dark and unfocused and bloodshot.

You’re more prepared after that. When the nightmares are bad, you gently rub his back and talk to him until his eyes open, still scared and wet.

“It’s okay,” you say. “You’re okay. You aren’t there.”

Wherever _there_ is.

Sometimes he pushes you away, angry and embarrassed and scared. He’ll mutter a lie about being fine and roll over, back facing you. He doesn’t go to sleep and neither do you, but you both stay quiet and pretend you do. Other times he clings to you, so tight you think you might have finger shaped bruises on you in the morning. You’ll take him out into the living room and turn the TV on, volume turned all the way down because you know neither of you will watch it. He lays practically on top of you and you rub your hand up and down his back until his breathing slows down.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask.

He shakes his head.

 

_He’s hopeless with technology._

Or so he says. You’re pretty sure he actually just likes watching you work, so you let it slide.

 

_He hates fighting._

Which is strange, considering that he’s in law school.

You have your first real fight about two months after you’ve become a couple. It’s about something stupid that you won’t remember in a month, but at the time it seems like the biggest deal in the world. It doesn’t last long before you’re grabbing your coat and slamming out the door, mumbling about how _I don’t know how I put up with you sometimes_. It’s not your proudest moment, to say the least.

It’s not until later, after you’ve been driving around for hours, that you realize you were the only one yelling. Connor has a sharp tongue, but you wouldn’t have known it. He just stood there, doing more to placate you than to defend himself.

You instantly feel awful and the feeling only grows worse as you drive home.

When you open the door, Connor is asleep on the couch, wearing one of your hoodies. The TV is casting a soft glow over the otherwise dark room. You didn’t realize how late it was. You try to shut the door quietly, but Connor is a light sleeper and he wakes up anyway. He’s confused at first, rubbing at his eyes, but as soon as he sees you he sits up.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “It was my fault. I know it was. I was being a dick. I’m really sorry, Ollie, just-”

You shut him up with your mouth. He melts into you almost immediately, one hand going to your hip and the other tangling in your shirt. It would be easy to just fall into each other, evening forgotten, but you know that’s not a good idea. So you pull back and sit down on the coffee table across from him. “I’m sorry,” you say seriously. “I shouldn’t have gotten that mad and I shouldn’t have stormed out like that.”

Connor bites his lip. “I don’t want to be someone you have to put up with.”

“No, Jesus, Connor,” you say, grabbing his hands. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean that. I was the one being a dick, okay? And I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Can we be done fighting now?” he asks, looking exhausted and wary, like you might start yelling at him again.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re done fighting.”

Maybe he just hates fighting with you.

 

_He likes affection._

He’ll deny it until he’s blue in the face, but he loves it when you call him _baby_ or _honey_ or _sweetheart._ He protests, but his face flushes and a pleased smile will pull up his lips when he thinks you aren’t looking. You mostly do it to tease him at first. He doesn’t know how to take it and you like seeing how hard you can make him blush, but over time it becomes more than that.

You’ve had him more times than you can count. You’ve fucked him on the floor of your apartment when it seemed impossible to not be in him a second longer, dirty and quick and rough. In the car, when you were both too eager to worry about who might see. You’ve made love to him in your bed, his face tucked tightly against your neck and his fingernails digging into the skin of your back. In the shower, when the steam and early morning light made you feel like you were swimming through syrup, slow and sweet.

You’ve done things to his body that make you blush thinking about when you aren't caught up in the heat of sex, but your tongue and your fingers and your dick will never reach quite as deep and never make him fall apart quite as hard as your words do.

 

_He loves you too._

He doesn’t need to say the words for you to know it’s true.


End file.
